The priestess glared at the bedrolls lining the temple walls, each wrapped around a sleeping soldier. "Blasphemous tyrants," she hissed as she made her nightly offering at the altar.
"Your god'll take our moonfish as well as anyone's, Sheani," the lone watchman answered lazily.
The worst of it was, he was right.
The story behind Blasphemy is an unusually good microcosm of how my academic reading habits evolve into fiction, so this week I want to take you through the process, in hope that it's an interesting "behind the scenes" look at how my stories get written — although often they take a longer than a week.
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